


Frostbite

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: Being Lost, Crack, Detectives, Gen, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Rivalry, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which two geniuses engage in a snowball fight, and nearly freeze to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift for x_gh0st_x at dn_contest on lj. Prompt: Winter! With some romping around in the snow, then cuddling under a blanket with hot cocoa by a fire place.
> 
> Sort of AU post-series - it's really just L and Light in a wintry setting and doesn't have much to do with canon.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?”

Light doesn’t want to be the accusing one, he really doesn’t, but in this situation it’s hard not to be. He’s freezing under three layers of jacket and thermal underwear and he knows he looks ridiculously puffed and padded, and that isn’t helping his temper. He has never had a winter outside of Tokyo, and even their one family Christmas in Hokkaido was nothing like _this cold_. He crunches through another mound of snow, and the wind slices into his face, makes his scarf beat annoyingly against one ear.

L, who is looking decidedly more comfortable despite the fact that he’s only wearing a scruffy old parka (in faded lemon yellow, no less), blows out a few, thoughtful puffs of breath before he answers, “We could be lost, yes. It’s hard to tell with all this snow.”

Light has to grit his teeth and close his eyes to keep from murdering the detective right there. The actions don’t really help, because not seeing makes him feel all the more cold, digging into his spine and along his skin. His lashes feel like they might freeze shut this way, so he opens his eyes again. L is sloping along in front of him, in a weird shuffle-stomp because he obviously isn’t used to snow boots. Light has to consciously measure his voice when he yells out, “Well, do you know the way or don’t you? Should I start dialling an emergency number on my cellular phone?”

"You underestimate me, Light-kun,” L says with fake feeling. “If there was reception out here I’d have had Watari fetch us long ago.”

Light grumbles an incoherent reply, because of course L would have thought of that, and he feels stupid for not realizing. He has never had the capacity to feel stupid before, and this fact makes him hate L even more, if that is at all possible.

“Besides,” L adds, slowly, as if he knows his next statement will cause trouble and he wants to savour the wickedness of it, “I wasn’t the one who wandered off the path suddenly.”

“I didn’t wander off the path,” Light snarls. He’s been repeating this line too often. “The path got covered with _snow_ , and I went in the direction that I – _knew_ it was supposed to go. Anyway, you’re the one who wanted to go out looking for clues.” This is childish, he knows, and he should be above it, but L’s presence always shoots his maturity level down to zero. He decides he won’t reply the next time L answers, _no matter what_ L answers, because Light Yagami is supposed to be decent and gentlemanly and mature.

“It’s a pity we didn’t find any because you were too busy complaining about the cold,” L sniffs.

That’s the last straw, but Light isn’t thinking about that anymore, because there’s suddenly a handful of snow in his glove (which resembles his mother’s cooking mittens far too much and he realizes that perhaps maybe L only gave them to him as a joke) but it’s gone in an instant, splattered against the back of L’s head and neck in a way that certainly looks cold and painful. _Good_ , Light seethes, before he has the wits to be ashamed.

L stops in his tracks for so long that Light begins to wonder if he struck a paralyzing nerve. Then the detective shakes his head so that the snow flies off and lands on the ground around them almost comically. He turns his face just a quarter of the way backwards so that one deep black eye is trained at Light in what _might_ be fury, but he’s not in the mood to interpret L’s expression today, he just wants a blanket and a warm fire and for his toes to stop turning to ice cubes every time he stops wriggling them.

“You threw a snowball at me.” L could never manage disbelieving; he sounds bored at best.

Light snorts. “What an excellent deduction. Would you like me throw another?”

“That won’t be necessary,” L answers calmly. He bends down and makes a scooping motion near his feet, and Light doesn’t even have enough time to get his guard up when a snowball slams into his stomach. The full force of L’s pitch bangs into the hundred layers of wool Light is wearing, and knocks him over. He falls. He doesn’t even have time to change the fall into something elegant, like a slip, instead. He lands on the snow with an unlovely whump, and he thinks he hears L snickering, but there’s too much snow piled around his ears so he can’t be sure. What he can be sure of is that both his hands are packing snow together automatically. He flings them simultaneously before hauling himself up and scrambling around for more fistfuls, ignoring how L is dodging quite skilfully, ducking and rolling in a way that vaguely resembles capoeira.

“Don’t underestimate me,” Light heaves, narrowly missing another one another one of L’s throws, which smacks into a snowdrift behind him. “I was an ace pitcher for the softball team for two years in grade school.”

“Before tennis?” L pants. “You never cease to amaze me.” A snowball explodes on his chest, making his parka a sickly yellow color. “Myself, I’m pretty good at dodgeball.” He chucks another snowball at Light’s head. Light jumps away just in time, so that it bursts on his thigh, and he pitches his next throw so hard he feels his arm strain afterwards. Moving with so much clothing on is _difficult_. Luckily, it meets its target, and L tips backward into the snow, arms windmilling uselessly as he falls.

Light stops himself from shouting “Got you!” just in time. He stands still, elated, wondering if the gloat doesn’t show on his face and secretly hoping that it does, because victory is and forever will be sweet. Then the snowball still crushed in one of his fists melts through his glove, and he is suddenly stung by the embarrassing realization of what he has just done. Did he seriously pick a _snowball fight_ with the world’s greatest detective? _Really?_ The last time he had had a snowball fight was with Sayu at a fake winter park when he was eight, and even then he had stopped after ten minutes because Sayu was already weepily calling for mom, and anyway, it seemed a waste of time. It _is_ a waste of time.

Besides, L is the only one who has any chance of getting them to a warm place at the moment, and that means that if he passes out, they are both seriously screwed.

“L?” He walks over, trying to keep the panic out of his voice and failing. Dying from frostbite, hunger, and thirst in the middle of nowhere ranks very low in his list of life goals. “L!” Why did he have to pick a letter for his name? Light sounds like an idiot calling that out when no one answers to it. He stands close to the detective and prods him with one foot, which is starting to turn numb. The detective doesn’t stir. His hair is spread out on the snow in messy black clumps, and Light realizes with a jolt that this is the first time he has seen L with his eyes closed, the bags underneath them purple-black like bruises.

He is bending over the detective to study his face more closely when L’s eyes flutter open. Light moves his face away immediately, more to keep from turning red than anything because he isn’t concerned, he just doesn’t want to die out here – but it’s too late, L’s hands shoot up in unison and fling snow right into his eyes, nose, mouth. “You bastard!” He shouts, or tries to, but all that comes out of his mouth is a limp _fff_ , and he can’t have any revenge because L has rolled away already, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He stands up, one thumb against his lips, and smiles crookedly as Light wipes slushy snow off his cheeks.

“I think this proves you’re quite healthy enough to trek several miles without further complaint, yes?” L’s tone would be sweet if the detective were capable of it; more likely he intended it to sound mocking.

Light is too frustrated to reply. He spits a mouthful of snow onto the ground and watches it freeze, willing his own fury to do the same. They’ll never get anywhere otherwise, and L’s too clever to beat when Light is chilled to the bone like this. _But next time_ , he thinks, eyes narrowed as L begins to walk again, humming a tune as he goes. Light winces when he realizes that it’s a bad rendition of _na-nana-nana-na_.

\---

It takes them another two hours before they find L’s cottage, right at the moment Light decides they may as well face the inevitable and go sleep in a snowdrift. The smoke coming up from the chimney almost brings tears to his eyes, and it’s all he can do not to sprint to the doorway and throw his arms around Watari, who is standing on the porch, looking as worried as his wrinkles will allow. L is still moving in his agonizingly slow gait, and Light resists the urge to kick him in the behind. The detective walks up the wooden snow-covered steps very purposefully, nodding in a bored manner as Watari walks briskly over. They have a muttered conversation. Light hovers behind them agitatedly, catching the words _blizzard_ and _hours_ and _hot_ , and the single minute they spend talking passes agonizingly slow, so that it seems ages before they finally enter the blissfully heated house.

He peels off layer after layer of snow-soaked jacket as he makes a beeline for the fire. He sits as close to it as he can possibly get, holding out his arms and hands, letting the warmth seep through him. The flame turns his skin from nearly-blue to rosy, and after his initial euphoria wears off, he finds himself glaring at it fiercely, imagining L burning within it. The next time he lays hands on the detective he’ll definitely end up strangling him.

“I hope you’re not thinking about killing me,” and L’s voice is closer than he expects it to be, warm against his ear, but Light knows by now that L is good at such surprise attacks. He doesn’t jolt away. He doesn’t even mutter a nasty remark. He just stretches out his legs and tips his head back to where the detective is smiling over him, suspicious red mugs in each hand. “It’ll be harder than you think.” He’s taken off the yellow parka, the long socks and snow boots, and looks in his element again, in his faded jeans and white shirt, a thick blue blanket over a shoulder. He sits down next to Light with both knees up, and brandishes a steaming mug at him. “Chocolate?”

Light sighs. He’ll beat L one day, definitely, but it’s probably not worth it to spoil the holidays over something so juvenile. Anyway, he’s got enough time to try, now that they’re working together. If L threatens his life with every new case like this, he may have to rethink his career options; but it hasn’t always been too bad. He gets to travel a lot, for instance, and even if L has too many annoying habits to count, things are never dull. At least, it’s more exciting than any desk job. Probably even more exciting than working as part of the police force would be. He sips the chocolate, glowering despite the fact that it’s obviously rich Swiss, and that Watari has flavoured it with something like peppermint.

L gazes lukewarmly at the fire before them, blatantly ignoring the foul mood Light is in.

“I’m sure we’ll get some leads tomorrow,” he says.

“We’d better,” Light answers darkly. Then he yanks the blanket off the detective’s shoulder and wraps it around himself, slurping his chocolate noisily. L tries to tug the blanket back, but Light has it coiled over his arm and pinned down under one hand, so it only slips back halfway. They wrestle it between them for a bit, so violently that it’s a miracle the material doesn’t tear, and finally end up with part of it over each of their shoulders and not really warming them at all, unless they huddle close together. Which they do. Because it’s difficult to ignore the cold when it’s still soaking through their underwear (all three layers of Light’s, anyway).

“You’ll get used to this, Light-kun,” L says, setting his mug down with satisfaction. _You’ll have to_ , his smile seems to add, threatening despite the tint of chocolate on it.

Light doesn’t admit that he already has, because he hates losing. The fact that he doesn’t flinch away when L slumps against him, and that he actually leans his head over L’s when this happens (even if he tells himself it's because of exhaustion), is probably enough of a white flag.


End file.
